Friday, September 30, 2016

trapdoor ...

trapdoor ...

the floor
under your feet
like the trap door in
some sad magician's act
and you plummet through
the stage floor of loneliness to
the saving mattress below
where you land spread-eagled
and tumble into his arms
your lover from before me
the man who made you
feel the pain of losing hope
and here he is again
making slow love to you
in waves of hips
cresting just above your line of vision
you say "No"
but he is already finishing
and rolling off
of you in a deep snore

you rise from the bed
slap my face once
and again
and then a third time
before you realise that
i am not there
just some streams of dust
sliding in parallel lines
down the rays of light
that seep through the open door
from the hallway chandelier
so you shout obscenities
at the moonlit window
that throws the same or worse
back at you from the
distorted reflection
of only you flailing at
the emptiness
there in the centre of the room
naked and still wet
with the sweat
from the sex you hated
but wanted
but had
with the man in the bed
who is groaning and
telling you to
"shut the fuck up"

i loved you once
in the gold glow of the deepest dawn
i loved your body
that encircled me like a vine
loved the feel of your legs carving across my back
loved the way your arms searched for the
solid mortar of my soul
even when all you found
were walls of the finest
gossamer that floated
away into the dark clouds of a crimson sunset
and still you clung
to the words
that drifted from me
across empty pages
words that fell from ragged envelopes
letters and scribbled stains of old promises
that smeared into illegible
smudges the moment
you sought to fix them
into vows of permanence
with the blotter of your need

in the valley where i'm living
i walk along the back roads
and sometimes i think of you
but not too often
the last i heard
you were travelling through
Eastern Europe or
possibly France
travelling alone
or with a partner
a younger man some say
while others say no
a much older lover
but i never wonder
never guess
at what you're doing
or about the men you're with
i am only sad
that you still drink the
wine of hope and perform
the sacrament of speculation
at how it might have been
while failing to remember
how it was


Here's what I'm listening to this morning ...

Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas ♫ Undertow


Thursday, September 29, 2016

Grapefruit Cock-Tale

Grapefruit Cock-Tale

Some of you may have heard of using a grapefruit as a sexual stimulant in the bedroom. Perhaps you've heard of Auntie Angel, a Chicago-based YouTube sexpert and inventor of the "grapefruit blowjob," a fellatio technique supposedly so pleasurable and thrilling that it can allegedly induce a heart attack. You can watch her video on YouTube, but be forewarned, it has some simulated sexual content.

Now, please consider this a something of a PSA, a public service announcement and nothing more. I do not advocate that you try this technique, unless you're thinking you might want to rid yourself of a contentious boyfriend.

Food has had a long historical connection with sexual pleasure. If you have seen the film, 9½ Weeks, starring Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke, you'll remember the scene in which strawberries and chocolate play an important role in their lovemaking. Over the years, the banana, cucumber, carrot, and zucchini have also figured into sexual play. Even the doughnut has probably served in ways that Krispy Kreme never intended.

Until today, I had not heard of the grapefruit blowjob. Here's how it works:

  • Choose a decent size ruby red grapefruit.
  • Roll the grapefruit on the counter to soften it up and get the juices flowing inside the grapefruit.
  • Chop off both ends of the grapefruit so that only a slice from the middle remains.
  • Cut a hole the size of your partners penis in the middle.
  • Put a towel down over the bed or wherever it is you plan to have this little adventure. Apparently, this is extremely important, since the grapefruit blowjob can be very messy.
  • Purists of the grapefruit technique suggest that you blindfold your partner.
  • Initiate an arousal sequence of events to get that rocket ready for liftoff.
  • Slip the grapefruit segment over the penis and proceed to go to work.

Now, results will vary from mouth to mouth, but apparently a wild and wanton result is not unusual, with your partner bucking more wildly than a wild stallion saddled for the first time.

Fair Warning #1: You'll both need a good shower afterwards. In the hopefully explosive heat of the moment, grapefruit pulp will likely find its way everywhere.

Fair Warning #2: It has been reported that some men find the grapefruit texture and cool juices preferable to traditional ports of call. To this end, you may find your partner less interested in you and more interested in hanging out in the produce section of your local supermarket.



Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Box Of Paints

Box Of Paints

I feel like I am living in my box of paints.

Some days, I am plagued by every shade of blue, but I am always mindful that they have had their due, had their way with me time and time again. After all, dreams fell apart, and I have seen my share of heartache, my own as well as the heartache of those I love. And still, they are there, chilly cerulean to cold cobalt, washing up over me like waves on a beach, always there reminding me that, yes, dreams fall apart. After all, the world confirms it, day after day. So, on days when I find myself under their cold ebb and flow, I imagine myself in a tin boat, and I row in uneven strokes over such turbulent seas until I have reached the horizon at the far edge of the mottled paper where I drift into a better mood.

There are times when I seek the comfort of the summer shades, the soft yellows and golds that sometimes bleed into one another like an citrus sunset. They warm my doubts and open me to unending possibilities. I splash in their vibrancy, because hope is intoxicating and is my addiction now, so much stronger than my junkie fascination with black and grey not so long ago. not so very long ago. And if I stop by the ivory harbour of white, I still remember that the absence of colour is no respite, just another shade of dark feelings in disguise. After all, a world without colour is a world without the vitality of transient textures and tangible change, blank in its clarity and contrast, but also empty. I can not live in a space undivided, trapped in a singular light.

I often linger in the hallways of red. That is where the mad woman lives, the one who drives me to write poetry, her unrelenting passion spilling over into my fingertips. Now, as I tumble into advancing age, I realise the dangers of her reckless disregard for convention and tradition. Too often, I have seen the spatter on the wall, spots and drops, swirls and whorls of exploded ideas and ideals, a crime scene that bleeds to scarlet and defies comprehension. Perhaps it is as it must be. No one escapes the seduction of creativity and remains unaffected by the experience. All are beautifully transfigured or cruelly disfigured in some undeniable way. Metaphor is murder.

Most days, I find myself mixed in with the greens, the panorama of lush tones dripping from forest glades or washed up from summer fields alive with the buzz of nature. There, I feel most at home, away from the harsh light of the city, away from the bleached streets of pen-and-ink starkness. There, I feel most alive in the living space of abounding growth, never doubting for a moment that the green charge that explodes into bright flora and fauna will, by nature's design, fade to sepia brown along the way, fade and decay, just as surely as my strong hands will fail and shake some day. I don't much mind. When the green world falters, when my fingers lose feeling, I will remember my box of paints and all the colours that I knew as I dabbed the last tints and hints of immortality on the portrait of my kaleidoscopic life.



Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Don't Be Such An Ass

Don't Be Such An Ass

Some people make it a lifelong habit to be a jerk, a blockhead, an idiot, a nitwit, a dolt ... well, simply put, an all-round ass.

Oh sure, they'll say they are compassionate, understanding, attentive, a good listener, kind, honest ... blah, blah, blah. The bottom line is that some folks are none of these.

If you're self-absorbed, if you can only seem to think about, talk about, hear about yourself ... HELL YEAH!... you're an ass.

If you are obsessed with how you look and are constantly judging others simply on their physical appearance ... BINGO! ... you're an ass.

If you're so competitive that you have to be better than everyone around you ... SLAM! ... you're an ass.

If you talk about your friends behind their backs and slip the cold blade of some judgemental put-down between their shoulder blades ... YEP! ... you're an ass.

If you can't help but feel left out when your friends or family do something without you ... UH HUH! ... you're an ass.

If you always have to be the "boss" in everything you do with others ... OMG! ... you're an ass.

If you lie, cheat, or are in any way dishonest with others ... YOWSERS! ... you're an ass.

If you are rude, especially in public, if you treat people, such as servers in a restaurant, as beneath you ... YIKES! ... you're an ass.

If you always have a smart remark for just about anything other people do or say ... JUMPING JEHOSAPHAT! ... you're an ass.

If you are unreliable, if one of your friends calls for some form of help, such as a ride to the airport, and you do everything but become invisible to avoid helping ... CARAMBA! ... you're an ass.

If you're always negative, always putting things down, always finding fault, always seeing the bad in everything ... OH BABY! ... you're an ass.

Now, I can't say if any or all of these qualities apply to you. Maybe, you recognise yourself in one or two or maybe even more of these conditions. If so, I hate to be the bearer of bad news ... you probably are an ass.

Do you have to remain an ass? Well, no, but you will you know, you will continue because, for whatever reason, people rarely change.

Oh, wait a sec ... that's a bit negative, isn't it? Well, there you go ... it takes an ass to know one, I guess.

And the biggest ass of all is the person who claims never to be an ass.



Monday, September 26, 2016

the omelette moon ...

the omelette moon ...
i read your poem again today
the poem you sent to me some time ago
and i read how you watched the moon
fall from the sky
and crack like an egg
when it hit the mountain tops
i read how the lunar yolk
spilled over the farthest reaches
of the valley
and turned the world
a sickly yellow
and i read how
you imagined the summer's heat
puffed the whole thing up
and made a giant omelette

i must admit
i was surprised
and if i chuckled
at so strange a turn
i'm sorry
i did not mean to imply
that the thought was
a bit mad
and even if it was
i should have been less
but when you added
that the angry skies
poured down red rain
like ketchup
i could only hope
you wouldn't add
a knife and fork
and then you did




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